Hollis

Just after sunset, I drop into a thick, upholstered armchair in Father’s private sitting room as he finishes pouring two steaming mugs of mulled wine. The smells of clove and nutmeg make my mouth water.

He joins me, offers me one mug, and takes the other armchair in front of the leaping fire. I fold my hands around the clay gratefully. It’s a little too hot to hold, but after almost six fucking hours on the wall, even I’m cold. Father refuses to show any weakness, ...